


In His Snake-Heeled Stilettos

by Insignias



Category: Thor (2011)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-02-11
Updated: 2012-02-11
Packaged: 2017-10-30 23:43:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/337513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Insignias/pseuds/Insignias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki has long since forgotten the sense of shame, but mere weeks after he takes a job at an exotic dancing club he meets the one person who brings it all rushing back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In His Snake-Heeled Stilettos

**Author's Note:**

> This AU was partially inspired as a result of the [snake-heeled shoes picture](http://30.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lz2w4eGopw1r4fvveo1_500.jpg) which cropped up on tumblr and [this newly accompanying image](http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lz2w4eGopw1r4fvveo2_r1_500.jpg). 
> 
> The marvel characters in this are either fashioned after those in the movie Thor or synthesized from my own imagination. Though I will do my best to ensure as accurate a portrayal of the character's personalities from their sources (should they be based from them), inevitably there will be differences due to the fact that none of these characters are in fact coming from the movie setting. They are all human and will remain so throughout the telling of this story. 
> 
> In addition, (though I'm not sure this needs a mention) this world doesn't acknowledge the oddness of character names. They're just names here.

The bass pounds through the tiny backroom, throbbing through the walls and setting fire to the blood of patrons and dancers alike; a too-quick heartbeat lost in pulsing veins of light and heat.

"Oh," Sigyn coos, fingers tracing the crystalline eyes of each snake, "These are _lovely._ "

She leans one forearm against the small vanity next to his own, flushed and overheated from her shift, ended just moments before. She’s a sweet one, this girl, not lost to the dull reality of her state in the world; happy as she is. Loki could envy her if he wanted to.

Loki hums something noncommital, snapping his garter against his thigh . Satisfied, he turns to the assortment of make-up supplies crowded atop the tiny stand. He hesitates over the various tubes of lipstick, then selects a dark ruby red. 

"Oh, no, no, sweetie," Sigyn chides, cheerful despite the feeble wave she gives him. She plucks the tube from his fingers, offering a smile in cheerful counterpoint to his annoyed look. She takes barely a moment, before dropping a much more brilliant red into his empty palm. "You're wearing black and that fantastic green of yours today, the least you can do is give it the proper touch."

He frowns, eyeing the tube with a mixture of appraisal and doubt, "Last I recall, my face isn’t the feature I’m to accentuate here." 

"Honey, they need you pretty and perfect." Interjects Freyja; popping into the reflection of his mirror to scowl at her frizzed, fiery locks. She gives them a perfunctory fluff, and purses her lips. "It's why you were hired; don't you remember?"

Loki rolls his dark green eyes, the beginnings of a sneer curling across his features as he hands off the tube to Sigyn once more, turning to face the false warrior queen.

But Freyja captures his chin in a vice-like grip, "Sigyn's right, love." She declares without preamble, earning a beam from the slighter woman. She reaches over him to take the proffered tube, "Your face is why your here, no matter what the boss says. Now, give us a kiss."

He opens his mouth without reluctance, too used to her careless disregard of personal space and proper decorum. Freyja has been the best at this work for quite some time (she’s never said how long exactly) and her advice, when given, is worth its weight in . She smears the thick crimson with quick, efficient motions. "We’re a high-class establishment, you remember.” She tsks and wipes a smudge away with a lick and smear of her thumb, “And you’ve got some proving left to do. Now smack."

"What?" He blurts, automatic and bewildered; licking his now colored lips. They feel caked and clotted; he has yet to grow used to the sensation despite the frequency of use. Sigyn leans forward and smacks her lips at his reflection, demonstrating. "Like that. See?"

"And no licking," Freyja reminds him, adjusting the straps of her latest costume back onto her shoulders, plastic armour clacking together and glitter smearing over her fingers, much to her obvious displeasure. Loki snorts just a little and licks them again out of spite. Freyja catches the action taps at his cheek in a mock-slap; the fondness in the gesture unmistakable.

“Freyja!” Barks a deep baritone and their attention is drawn toward the source. Freyr trots up the them, weaving his way around the mess of vanities dotted throughout the long, narrow backroom, “You staying for the boys show this time?” He pauses as cranes his head, inspecting the other male with clear appreciation, question seemingly forgotten. He himself is already dressed, flimsy overalls artfully, if hastily tattered; checkered shirt seeming two sizes too small to accentuate his broad shoulders and freckled, muscled arms.

Loki rolls his eyes and wrinkles his nose in distate, “I am not a _doll_ ,” He warns, eyes narrowing at the insinuation, “There’s no need to stare.”

Freyr’s grin only widens, “You could be _my_ doll, if you wanna.” He reminds, licking his lips and waggling his brows in an unmistakable suggestion. Loki snorts and bats his searching hand away. He sets about re-ordering the tubes and bottles of make-up scattered across his station. If his hands tremble in his hidden haste, no one makes a mention, “Careful, Freyr, what would the ladies say if they realized your true nature?”

Freya sighs, giving her brother a knowing look as she lopes an arm around his shoulders, “Freyr doesn’t care which parts they have, only that they’re pretty enough for him.”

“And you are pretty,” Chirps Sigyn, smiling and bright with unfettered honesty, “Everyone could fall for you.”

Loki twists to face her; coal-black lashes flutter as his eyes widen in false surprise, “They haven’t already?” He gasps, shocked and mock-hurt, “After all I’ve done for their attention?”

Sigyn sputters; startled and suddenly horrified until the moment is broken with Freyr’s laughter and Freyja dissolves into helpless giggles at his side, collapsing against her brother.

 

Sigyn smacks his shoulder, stifling her laughter behind a manicured hand, “You scoundrel!” She hisses, “Don’t do that!”

A horn blares, short but obnoxious, and startles each of them from their reveries.

“C’mon doll,” Farmhand-garbed stripper slips free of his sister’s arms and crooks a finger with an impish look as Loki’s expression darkens in warning, “Best be going. I hear there’s a bachelor party out there eager to explore their underdeveloped bisexuality.”

Loki stands with practiced grace; all too aware of his too-small experience with lifted shoes. He is tall without the added height and so with it he nearly towers over Freyr, though the other man’s muscled bulk more than makes up for the difference. “Did you talk with Sjöfn?” He asks, ignoring the proffered arm out of more habit than spite. He can manage well enough without it (or so he prefers to believe).

“Nah, not tonight. Got myself a look on my way in. Looks like a sure thing, though. Especially the ones on your side; with your looks you’ll have them eating out of your palm before they ever notice your package.”

“Ah.” Loki growls, unsure whether to be relieved or rightly angered, “Thank you for being so eloquent about it.”

“Gotta get the priss out of you somehow, yeah?” Freya presses a kiss to his sister’s forehead and murmurs something to quiet to hear in her ear before bounding up the stage steps to take up his own post.

Sigyn clambers to her feet, a gentle look in her eye as she steps up onto her toes to kiss her friend good luck. “Don’t work yourself too hard,” she murmurs to him, a placating hand on his arm, “Just give me a call if you want me to pick them up after school. You know I never mind looking after them if you want to catch up on your sleep a bit more.”

The black-haired man looks at her for one long moment; emerald eyes dark and face aged beyond his years. He leans forward, bends enough to press a kiss in return and draw back with an old smile, “Are you certain you’re human, Sigyn?” He inquires; tone light though his eyes say otherwise, “Perhaps you are truly a goddess, hiding out among mortals to keep them sane.”

Sigyn giggles, quiet and sweet, and squeezes his arm before giving him a gentle shove, “Get moving, you flatterer. Your silver tongue will see better use on customers, not me!”

Loki grins, a true, brilliant thing, and makes a careful-stepped dash for his position behind the thick curtain mere moments before his cue.

He swallows as his heels stutter to a halt, snatching up the clawing nerves that rise and burying them deep as the music outside ebbs, the announcer outside alerting the crowd to the nightly change with bold cheer. With one last calming breath he straightens and forces his hands to unclench, offering a whispered prayer for loved ones tucked safe in sleep’s arms. _They each have reasons for doing this_ , his mind reminds, _just remember mine_.

He tosses the curtain back right on cue, a flirtatious lilt to his lips and a sashay in his step. The crowd around him roars, from music or person he cannot tell, but in these moments it no longer matters.

Here he is not Loki, a man scraping his way to freedom with broken fingers and bare-faced need. Here he is only a trickster; a pale-skinned thing with work to do and needs to fill should the price prove worth enough.

So he works this stage as if it is all he knows, music and men and all, and it is for a time. The throb in the air is soothing and deep, easy to catch and hold, making it simple to ignore the jeers of customers until his quickly learned tricks are mostly through and not casting a line will do more harm than good.

His saunter down the walkway provokes a renewed response, for until that moment he has kept to the center and pole, but Loki knows his way enough not to take the first offer given. He plays coy and allows himself the illusion of choice; pursing blood-red lips and casting his eyes about as if searching for more. The music is his lifeblood now, its thrum and ebb his own, and he lets the faces before him blur for it does not matter anymore.

A shaft of gold in flashing light sparks interest; edges of a memory scraping with soft-edged care, but it is the notes offered that truly draw his gaze. Two bills with hundred marks, offered up as if in penance, and Loki is not fool enough to resist a catch like that.

It is not until he steps forward, crouching low on snake-heeled shoes, that he realizes the mistake made.

A man sits before him; sky blue eyes bright and flushed with drink and heat, but still clear enough to see him, to know and be struck dumb. Loki’s blood turns to ice, breath vanishing in a panicked rush and leaving only foul cotton in its wake, unable to stand and walk away.

“Loki,” Thor breathes, reaching out with thick fingers as if to brush his cheek. Loki flinches without thought and does not feel guilt for it, though in this moment he cannot fathom why, “What are you doing here?”


End file.
